


a delicate fire

by meritmut



Series: sifki au verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Beltane, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Beltane night, and Sif and Loki have no interest in joining the festival with their peers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a delicate fire

_“You don’t enjoy the rites? I noticed you weren’t at the feast.” She pauses, smiling as she hears a tune drifting in over the balcony, a familiar song from her homeland played on a lone pipe. She recalls past May Days in Vanaheimr, when she was too young to realise what the figures around the bonfires did when they vanished into the night, but still of an age to sense the magick and importance of the date. To ensure a good harvest is to ensure the survival of the realm, for her people. In Asgard, it seems to be more of an excuse for a knees-up the whole land can enjoy._

_Loki shrugs. “I enjoy the day. But there’s no need for me to enjoy the night.”_

 

Sif is stuck. Today has been a riot of cheer, of music and laughter and company, but after the noise-filled festivities all she wants is to curl up somewhere in the quiet – somewhere more comfortable than the great empty hall where she sits with the younger prince of Asgard. The only thing that’s stopping her seeking out her own bed is a deep-set unwillingness to be alone tonight. Beltane is a time of merriment, of celebration and song, not of solitude. She can’t spend it on her own: it should be passed in the company of friends. She has been trying to convince Loki of this fact for the better part of three years, since he’s determined to hide and avoid everyone for as long as he can while they’re drunk and noisy, and normally he would be a perfect companion for Sif when she misses her home, being neither loud nor intrusive. Tonight, however, the prince is less than understanding of her homesickness, and even more surly than usual. Something’s weighing on his mind, and she would have it lifted. She would have her friend back.

And so, after a time of silence, she gets to her feet again and holds out her hand to him.

“Come on.”

Loki raises one eyebrow questioningly. She’s often wondered how he does that – manage to convey his thoughts with his eyebrows alone.

“Where?”

“I can’t stay inside anymore, I need to be out _there_ ,” she gestures vaguely towards the night beyond the terrace, “Come with me.”

He frowns, “This hasn’t to do with your _rites_ , does it? Because when you said you had your own way of celebrating Beltane, I assumed you meant alone…”

Sif rolls her eyes. “It has nothing to do with that. I only meant that we could go walking. Please. I just need some air.” She waits for him to point out that there’s plenty of air out on the terrace, that she doesn’t need to drag him out into the city to breathe, but if it occurred to him then he keeps quiet about it. Rising, he runs his hands over his blue tunic to smooth it and gestures for her to precede him out of the mead hall. They walk side by side, out into the night that even at this late hour still resembles evening, for every few feet tall torches have been staked to light the way and the land remains illuminated by the raw glow of the blazing skies, the stars like phosphorescent jewels up amidst the twisting nebulae of Yggdrasil’s boughs. Under the blossoming cosmos a man might find his way through the deepest midwinter night, and this early in the summer it’s easy enough for Sif and Loki to cross into the music-filled orchards, ignoring the voices of the revellers still around them, and up onto a small hill that overlooks the green lands to the south of the citadel. Loki had been sitting in the northernmost hall of the palace when Sif found him – as far away from the festival as he could get, but though this is much closer it’s still quiet, only the faint singing and music reaching their ears.

Out under the stars he feels their shifting tides begin to pull at him, the blood in his veins answering the elemental siren call and dissolving into pure silver seiðr, that it might leave him through his very skin and shimmer up into the skies. On nights like this, he does not mind so much that the cosmic magick fills him so powerfully, pulses through him like no other Asgardian yet living. He can feel the heartbeat of the earth itself, thrumming through the soles of his boots, hear the shivery song of the sun and the moon and the stars as clearly as he can the music of the Beltane carousers – clearer, even: sometimes Loki feels closer to the cosmos than he does his own people. Tonight is one of those times. He understands the practical need for a cycle of feasts throughout the year: to encourage the Æsir, to raise morale and cheer more than to literally call blessings on their crops, but not since he was thirteen has he taken part in them beyond what a prince’s duty demands. He’s always left early, begged to be excused on account of weariness and kept to his rooms until the dawn saw all the stragglers from the night before returned to their beds. This is the closest he has come in years to joining the celebrations and the only other person in sight is Sif, who has no more interest in it than him.

By now it’s nearly midnight, and still the Æsir sing and dance and rut all across the realm. Escaping the chaos, Sif had spent over an hour in the mead hall with Loki, growing increasingly restless and bored and yet still unwilling to leave him. Who else would she go to for company tonight? If Thor hadn’t vanished with that scullion, and Sigyn to offer her musical talents for the festival, Sif might have looked for them, but the last place she wants to be right now is close to the bonfires at the very heart of the noise and the celebrations, where both her friends will surely be. Well, Sigyn at least. Thor’s probably somewhere in the orchard with his maiden companion by now, honouring the night the old-fashioned way.

At feasts, high days and balls over the past few years Sif has made it abundantly clear that she can’t – or won’t, more likely, given how naturally athletic she is – display any aptitude for dancing, or even a sign of actually having rhythm in that area, but tonight the earth itself seems to pulse with a beat it feels only natural to respond to with motion. Out of the corner of his eye Loki notices her delicate fingers tapping along to the low throb of the drums far below, occasionally fluttering in time to the sweet melody of the pipe that drifts on the warm breeze to enclose the teenagers on their hill.

The pipe fades out after a few moments, and in its place a fiddle strikes up a jaunty, rapid tune that has her fingertips almost dancing upon the ground. Loki closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him, until Sif’s fingers accidentally brush against his arm and his eyes fly open again. She grimaces apologetically at him. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters.

Though Sif is much less fidgety these days, possessing instead a quality of watchful, patient calm that reminds him faintly of Heimdall, she still chews her lip when she’s nervous and Loki has noted more than once that some part of her is _always_ moving. It’s usually her mouth, mobile and fascinatingly expressive even when she’s silent. Loki could know her every last thought or emotion from the movement of her lips alone. He’d never tell her that, though. She would probably start wearing a veil. Or a helm with a full-face vizard. She’s not like Sigyn. Sigyn couldn’t care less that she is as transparent as light itself to Loki’s sights. It would bother Sif, and so he’ll never let her know, never give up the small advantage he holds over her.

Tonight her mouth is still, and it’s her hands that capture his attention. Small, slim fingers aquiver over the grass, far too dainty, he would think, for the life she plans on leading. How can a girl who wants to be a warrior wield sword or spear, when he could envelop both of her fists in one hand? Her bare arms show the bruises left from her spar with Hogun this morning, a blue-purple stain across her skin where he’d slammed her to the ground, and darker, more concentrated bands of black where her armour had been driven into her flesh. He’s seen her fight once or twice, marvelled at her agility and strength and heard Volstagg praise her technical skill, but never really thought of her as a _soldier_. Never pictured her standing with the Einherjar, clad in gold to match her hair, proud and shining.

Now that he thinks of it, actually, he hasn’t ever imagined what Sif might make of her future. Not until tonight, and the answer has surprised him.

“Are you afraid?” he asks softly, lying down and shuffling until his head finds a comfortable space. Sif glances down at him, frowns, nods.

“I would be a fool not to be. But I think I worry more about what they’ll say…the others. They cling to their traditions, and there never has been a girl Einherji before.” She draws her knees up against her chest to rest her chin upon them, wrapping her arms around her legs. A faint sigh escapes her. She’s more anxious than she lets on, gript by the fear that they will judge her – that the Allfather might even forbid it. There’s no law against it, but what does that matter? She’s still an outsider in Asgard, and this will not endear her to the Æsir.

“It won’t stop you,” Loki murmurs with a sense of certainty.

“No,” Sif smiles down at him, forcing herself to move beyond her fears just as she did the first day she stepped out onto the yard to face Fandral, a tall, golden-haired young man with _hero_ written plainly across his comely face. Fear is fine. Fear is necessary – a soldier needs it in order to be brave at all: without fear courage becomes folly and boldness becomes suicidal recklessness. It’s not being scared that troubles her. But giving in to that fear…it’s simply not a viable option for her. She’s chosen this path, and she will see it through or die trying.

Literally, given how dangerous her life is going to be once she takes her vows and becomes one of King Oðin’s warriors. Every day new threats will emerge more serious than the criticisms of the court. Failure is not – cannot be – possible. She’ll pass every single day of her life in the barracks until she proves herself if she must, she’ll become proficient with every weapon Asgard has to offer and follow Thor on every quest, every venture, until they accept her. And if they don’t, then she will just learn not to care.

Sif unfolds her legs and stands, gazing out over the hill and across to the golden citadel. The dimming torches puncture the deepened night and cast the realm into warm amber, and over towards the fields she can see a brighter glow from the Beltane fires, their flickering halo crossed every now and then by spindly shadows as the younger of the Æsir prove their stamina when it comes to a good party.

They’ll dance right until the sunrise – if they haven’t already given themselves over to more horizontal affairs. Sif doesn’t mind not being one of them.

She looks back to Loki, her silken-soft hair lifting in the slight breeze and silhouetted in silver by the luminous starlight. A determined look settles over her face.

“It absolutely will not. I have your brother’s support, at the least.”

_Ah, yes. My brother._

Loki moves one hand up against his chest, rubbing slightly at the inexplicable tension that has arisen in the centre, between his ribs. It feels vaguely like the ache that comes over him when Thor gets them both in trouble with the Allfather. Or when Thor laughs along with a jibe made at Loki’s expense by one of their peers. Or when Sif spends the day sparring in the yard with the warmakers, rather than with him, and comes home glistening with sweat, fair hair all over the place and sticking to her skin – skin bruised and sore and bleeding more often than not, and beaming more brightly than any star that ever burned.

“And mine,” he says, half-hoping she won’t hear him.

But she does, and she turns back to him, and the glow of her smile robs Loki of breath.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Borrowing some Celtic festivals for Asgard, because it's fun to play with.
> 
> (Vaguely based on the headcanon of Sif as the daughter of Hoenir, who was sent as a hostage to Vanaheimr. He wed a Van and their daughter has returned to Asgard to help mend bridges between the two realms.)


End file.
